


None of His Business

by YumYumPM



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-24
Updated: 2014-01-24
Packaged: 2018-01-09 21:41:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1151113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YumYumPM/pseuds/YumYumPM
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon notices that something is wrong with Illya, but in spite of thinking that it is none of his business, he can't seem to help but interfere.<br/>Previously published Eyes Only #8<br/>revised</p>
            </blockquote>





	None of His Business

Napoleon glanced up, suddenly aware that his partner’s body was moving a bit stiffer than usual.  “Feeling okay?” he asked casually as he shuffled the papers in his hand. 

 “I’m fine,” Illya answered curtly.

Napoleon shrugged, choosing to believe his partner and went back to his work. If Illya insisted he was fine, he was.  After all it was none of his business. 

Napoleon’s mind refused to stay on his work as he mentally went over his plans for the evening and the lovely young lady with whom he was sharing it with, when he heard a hiss of pain from Illya.  He glanced up and quickly moved from behind his desk to approach his partner, who was bent over holding his side.

“Let’s see,” Napoleon demanded.

Illya scowled as he straightening slightly.  “Really, it’s nothing.”

Napoleon stared at him and motioned ‘come on’ with his hand.

With bad grace, Illya shucked off his jacket and jerked his tie from under his collar.  He pulled his shirttail out of his trousers and started to unbutton his shirt, while Napoleon dropped to one knee, ready to examine the injury. The door whooshed open and a young Section III agent started to enter.  The young man’s eyes bulged, his face turned bright red.  He stopped suddenly and backed out muttering something about coming back later.

Napoleon looked up and cocked an eyebrow, while Illya glanced down, his lips taking on a glower.  The two older agents each having a pretty good idea what the other was thinking.  Napoleon, letting a smile tug at his lips, gingerly pulled Illya’s shirt back to expose a huge bruised area.  He whistled sharply as he gently poked the area, getting a feel for the damage and causing Illya to flinch. 

Napoleon looked up in surprise when Illya, trying to distract him, scowled.  “Get your mind out of the gutter.”

Napoleon’s lips quirked as he answered, “But it’s so much fun.  How exactly did you manage do this?” he asked getting back to the business at hand.

“I slipped.”

Careless of him, Napoleon thought as he pulled himself upright and dusted off the knees of his slacks, and not like the Russian at all.  Still it was none of his business.  “Let’s get you to medical,” he ordered.

Illya pulled his shirt together, refastening the buttons, and tucking it back into his trousers as he protested, “It’s merely a little bruising.  There is no need to go to medical.”

Napoleon got a firm grip on the Russian’s elbow and shepherded him out the door.  “Let me be the judge of that,” he said firmly, using his best ‘I have seniority’ voice.

“I do not need an escort,” Illya grumbledthrough clinched teeth.  His blue eyes darkened as he sent a glacial glare to his partner, which Napoleon proceeded to ignore as he led his partner down the hall toward the medical section.

Once Napoleon got his partner settled into medical, he found himself a seat and focused his attention on the attractive nurse busily taking Illya’s vital signs.  His eyes following her slender build and her nicely rounded derriere.

Illya noticed and grunted around the thermometer in his mouth, his bad temper fading.  When the nurse turned her back, he muttered, “Now I see why you insisted on coming with me.”

Napoleon grinned in response.  If Illya wanted to think he was here to ogle the nurses, far be it for him to correct him.  With his partner’s dislike of medical treatment, the moment he left Illya alone he would find someway to slip away. They both had enough experience to know that any injury, even a pulled muscle, hampered your ability in the field.  Except Illya’s, of course.  He thought he could hide his under a quiet, gruff, efficient, killer mask.

The doctor arrived, flipping through the patient’s chart.  He looked over his glasses to where the American agent slouched in his chair.  “You needn’t stay,” he informed Napoleon.

Illya smirked.  Hadn’t he said the same thing? 

Napoleon responded with a grunt and stretched out his legs crossing them at the ankle as he crossed his arms over his chest.  They would need a stick of dynamite to move him.

The doctor shrugged realizing the futility of the situation.  Addressing his patient, he asked, “What seems to be the problem?”

Illya shrugged resignedly, removed his shirt and tie, exposing the bruised area of his side.

The doctor adjusted his glasses as he moved closer for a better look.  He reached out and touched the spot.  “Does this hurt?” he asked.

Illya’s hiss of pain was answer enough.

“How did you manage to do this?” the doctor asked as he manipulated the damaged area.  “I was unaware you were on assignment.”

Illya hesitated before admitting, “I wasn’t.  I fell down a flight of stairs.”

The doctor’s eyebrows drew up, but he kept silent. 

Napoleon mentally frowned while pretending to be unconcerned when Illya admitted, “I tripped on a pair of skates.”  Illya had tripped over skates?  Where?  There were no children in Illya’s apartment building as far as Napoleon knew.  How had he managed to trip over a pair of skates?  Of course, Napoleon realized, it really wasn’t any of his business.  He silently watched as the doctor professionally strapped up the bruised ribs.

 

A few weeks later, at two in the morning, Marissa was having trouble working the key into her apartment door.  Not unusual as Napoleon was nibbling at her neck, his hands roaming her delectable form, his groin pressed against her rear, giving her no room for doubt as to what his intentions were.  Finally managing to get the door open, she turned in his arms, her lips engaging his with what he thought of as promises of things to come.  Suddenly she was slipping through the opening, blowing him a kiss, as she giggled and shut the door in his face.

Napoleon stood there stunned and growled his disappointment.  Then he smiled ruefully.  You can’t win them all.  He was just turning to leave when his eyes connected with a pair of familiar icy blue eyes and his jaw dropped.

Then the blue eyes slid guiltily from his and his partner swiftly moved toward the stairs. In that one instant Napoleon noted his partner’s misbuttoned shirt, the tie being slipped into a pocket and the door from which the Russian had emerged.  _Damn_ , Napoleon thought as his blood ran cold when he realized just whose door it was. _Does he have any idea…_

 

Illya slipped out of the apartment, wrestling with the buttons on his shirt.   He had sworn that this was it; he would not see her again.  All his life he’d avoided entanglements of any sort and to find himself bewitched was disconcerting.  This wasn’t him.  She had to be a witch, it was the only explanation. Disgusted with himself for being unable to resist seeing her when she called, finding himself rushing to see her, acting like…like Napoleon.

To think it had started out so innocently.  Weeks ago he’d met her at the library, accidentally he’d thought at the time.  Now he wasn’t so sure.  Things had been going wrong for him of late.  In fact he’d lied to the doctor, he hadn’t tripped over skates.   The truth was too embarrassing.  Losing his balance getting out of the tub just proved that he’d become clumsy.  It wasn’t the first time and he worried that it could be a sign of something more serious, something he didn’t want to consider.   Her dark eyes had seemed to suck him in, making him forget all his troubles, his worries.  The scent of her took away his will power while her fingers, her lips took him to places he’d done his best to stay away from.  He couldn’t deny that it was sex pure and simple.  She’d never made any pretenses of that, there were no strings, no attachments.

Tomorrow he would break it off…tomorrow and hope Napoleon never found out.  It was none of his business anyway.

He turned to go toward the stairs, shocked to see Napoleon standing a couple of doors away.  It took everything in him not to react.  A glacial stare and he was at the stairs, not really paying any attention.  His foot landed on something and the next thing he knew his feet were swept out from under him and he came into intimate contact with each step, one at a time.

Napoleon’s thoughts were interrupted by a thumping sound and he hurried toward the stairs.  He glanced back expecting doors to open to investigate the noise.  His eyes followed the baseball, the one he had barely missed falling over earlier, as it slowly bounced down each stair finally coming to rest at the bottom of the landing next to his partner. 

Cursing, Napoleon rushed down the stairs, to where Illya lay moaning, his right leg bent at an unusual angle.  “Don’t move,” Napoleon ordered quietly as he knelt beside Illya, pushing him back down to a reclining position.

Napoleon pulled out his communicator, requesting an ambulance, informing them of the location.  He looked to the top of the stairway.  Thankfully no one had come running to see what had happened. In this building people tended to mind their own business, as he was well aware.  He finally turned his eyes back to the hard blue glare of his partner.

“What are you doing here?”  Illya’s accent, more pronounced, was harsh with pain.  The unspoken accusation that he thought Napoleon had followed him clear in his question.

“My date for the evening happens to residehere,” Napoleon announced as he ran his hands down the bent leg, finding the break without any trouble. 

Illya hissed through the pain, then asked harshly, “And why are you not still there?” 

“Alas the young lady wasn’t interested.”

Illya shot him an incredulous glare.  “Unusual climax.”

Napoleon clamped his lips tightly.  He tried to hold back from saying what he knew, but found he could not.  “Illya, you do realize she’s married.” It wasn’t a question.  “And to whom.”

Illya looked away, his face flushing despite his best efforts. “So.  A little thing like that has never stopped you.”  He turned defiantly to look Napoleon in the eye.  “Besides, it is none of your damn business.”

Fortunately, at that moment the medical team came clamoring up the stairs, ending the discussion. 

Normally Napoleon would agree with Illya’s assessment.  But not in this case.  Napoleon never fooled around with a married woman.  He might enjoy sex with her the night before, but once the ceremony was concluded she was off-limits. 

Napoleon stood back, as Illya’s leg was tended to and he was loaded onto a gurney and taken away.  His eyes followed the attendants until they were out of sight, before turning his gaze upward.  Straightening his shoulders, he walked back up the stairs and knocked.

“Back so soon,” the softly accented voice spoke before the vision of loveliness stood in the doorway could register that the man standing there was not her paramour.  She was running a brush through her dark auburn tresses, her negligee invitingly open.  “Why, Napoleon.  It has been a long time.  How nice to see you,” she said in surprise, her smile definitely predatory.

Napoleon felt a rush of blood center in his groin.  Although he knew the dangers, he was not immune to her charms. Brigitte could be very enticing, as he well knew.  “Leave my partner alone, Brigitte,” he demanded.

Brigitte stopped brushing her hair and her eyes hardened as she responded haughtily, “Illya knows his own mind.  He is, after all, an adult.”  She tilted her head to one side as she fluttered her grey eyes and asked coyly, “Why not come inside?  We can discuss this more…privately,” she purred as she pulled him into the apartment and into her arms.

“I mean it,” Napoleon said firmly, pulling away from her tantalizing perfume.  “Leave him alone.”

“Why?”  Brigitte asked, tilting her head provocatively to one side and thrusting her bountiful breasts forward.  “Jealous?”

No, Napoleon wasn’t jealous, he’d long since gotten over his infatuation.  Brigitte Becker was an old flame before her marriage.  That was not why this liaison could prove dangerous. Normally he wouldn’t care who Illya spent time with.  But Brigitte had married Bill ‘Bruiser’ Becker, a specialized operative.   She was also trouble with a capitol T, in her own way as dangerous as Angelique or Serena.

Becker and the men in his section took on the dirty jobs, the ones that most of U.N.C.L.E. never talked about.  He was also intensely jealous.  The last man Becker had caught flirting with his wife had ended up in traction for months.

“What if I say no?” Brigitte taunted him.

“Then I will have to inform your husband just how you spent the night before your wedding.”

Brigitte’s face turned a profound red and she brought her brush back to strike him. Before she could strike, a large hulking shape appeared in the doorway.

Bill Becker took one look at the scene being played in his living room and jumped to the wrong conclusion.  “Solo,” Brigitte’s husband growled.  “I should have known.  So you’re the bastard whose been screwing my wife.” 

Napoleon backed away, trying to get distance between them.  “Now, Bill.  This is not what it looks like.  Can’t we talk this over like reasonable adults?”

Becker was not feeling reasonable.  He grabbed Napoleon by the back of his neck and proceeded to beat the shit out of him.  Napoleon, cursing the fact that he’d not worn his gun that evening, sighed, resigned to his fate and made little effort to defend himself.  The ramification of doing so would not be worth it.  Mr. Waverly’s disapproval should he severely damage a fellow agent over a woman did not bear thinking about.  After the first few blows, Napoleon decided ‘the hell with it’ and returned a few of his own.

 

A battered and bruised Solo was wheeled into the room Kuryakin, his leg in traction, currently occupied.  The attendants transferred the dark-haired agent to the other bed, smirking as they left.  Being called out twice to the same location was a first.

Brigitte had, after a few moments, taken a lamp from the end table and brought it down over her husband’s broad back, effectively stopping the fight.  She moved to check if Napoleon was still alive, frightened when he grabbed her arm.  His grip tightened when she tried to move away.  “I mean it, Brigette.  Leave him alone.”  Napoleon dark eyes pierced hers until she nodded her agreement. 

Napoleon, bruised and bloody had the presence of mind to come up with a reasonable excuse for what happened and Bruiser, who would live, would receive a reprimand in his file, a mere slap on the wrist, considering his offense. 

The fair-haired agent, still groggy from painkillers, did a double take.  “Wha’ happen?” he asked, his voice slurred, as he tried to focus his eyes.

Napoleon said nothing, the sedative he had been given taking effect.  There was no point in explaining to Illya what had happened.  After all, Napoleon knew first hand how seductive Brigitte could be, and Illya who could normally resist that sort of entanglement, had absolutely no chance, once Brigitte set her mind on captivating him.  Even as he slipped into sleep he couldn’t help but wonder the how and why of Illya’s entanglement with someone like Brigitte, so out of character for the man he knew his partner to be.  Maybe when they were released he would find out.  Then again, maybe not.  After all, it **was** none of his business.

 

 


End file.
